_Culchard_ (_meditating_). I think MAUD must have seen from the tone
in which I said I preferred to remain below, that I object to that
cousin of hers perpetually coming about with us as he does. She's far
too indulgent to him--a posing, affected prig, always talking about
the wonderful things he's _going_ to write! He had the impudence to
tell me I didn't know the most elementary laws of the sonnet this
morning! Withering repartee seems to have no effect whatever on him,
I wish I had some of PODBURY's faculty for flippant chaff! I wonder
if he and the PRENDERGASTS really are at Milan. I certainly thought I
recognised ----. If they are, it's very bad taste of them, after the
pointed way in which they left Bellagio. I only hope we shan't--

[_Here the figure of Miss PRENDERGAST suddenly emerges from
the door; CULCHARD rises and stands aside to let her pass;
she returns his salutation distantly, and passes on with her
chin in the air; her brother follows, with a side-jerk of
recognition. PODBURY comes last, and halts undecidedly._

_Podb._ (_with a rather awkward laugh_). Here we are again, eh?
(_Looks after_ Miss P., _hesitates, and finally sits down by_
CULCHARD.) Where's the fascinating Miss TROTTER? How do you come to be
off duty like this?

_Culch._ (_stiffly_). The fascinating Miss TROTTER is up above with
VAN BOODELER, so my services are not required.

_Podb._ Up above? And HYPATIA just gone up with BOB! Whew, there'll be
ructions presently! Well out of it, you and I! So it's BOODELER's turn
now? That's rough on _you_--after HYPATIA had whistled poor old BOB
off. As much out in the cold as ever, eh?